Random Esquire

I used to say that I’d marry the first woman who threw a plate at me. I remember first thinking this as a college freshman. It was at a talent show of sorts and a woman (who looked like a young Nicole Kidman) took the stage, sat down on a stool and sang Blue Bayou. I had never heard the song before. Leaning forward in my seat, I watched as she closed her eyes and sang about the silver moon and the evening tide. She crooned. It was evocative. Her voice was smoother than oil and I was convinced her lips must smell like peaches. She had perfectly translated something into a language I understood. It was her sincere passion.

Years later, I now have the perspective to realize that it is this passion that carved its initials onto the truck of my memory. I am still fascinated by and attracted to people who wear their passions on their sleeve. It is their undercurrent. A color that settles like dust on everything they see, both invisible and blinding.

I love observing the every day and finding a way to capture it its absurdity in a way that makes someone either laugh or think. People fascinate me. And passionate people… passionate people are the most exciting because of the challenge they bring to translate their passion into the words of my own. My clearest memories, the initials carved most deeply, are by those passionate people.

1.  Plush and I were in bed, canoodle-snuggling.  I won’t go into how this topic arose, but suffice to say that at one point, Plush said, “I fuckin’ love Kenny Rogers.”

*blink*

No one says that they fuckin’ love Kenny Rogers.  Well, maybe his plastic surgeon.  But that’s about it.  No one else fuckin’ loves Kenny Rogers.  Let alone says it.  In bed.

Especially since…I am not Kenny Rogers.

2. Plush told me some of the things she might blog about here, while I am away.  Of the topics she brought up…well, all I can say, people, is that you’re in for a completely different experience.   She is open to suggestions or questions, if you have any.  You can leave them in the comments section.

I don’t know if I’m more nervous for you…or for me.

3.   The Italian and I spoke today.  He paused as we were talking and said, “You…you have..in your voice..how shall I say it… Post sex conceit.  That ‘sex with a hot girl’ conceit.”

I said, “Oh.  Like I’m…peacocking?”

He said, “EXACTLY.”

Guilty.